


If you wannabe my lover, you gotta get with my friends...

by watchthequeenconquer



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Choking, Coming Untouched, Dirty Talk, First Time Blow Jobs, Genderplay, Girl Power, Humor, Intoxication, M/M, Masturbation Interruptus, Mildly Dubious Consent, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Play Fighting, Praise Kink, Pre-Relationship, Spice Girls References, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:34:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27399559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watchthequeenconquer/pseuds/watchthequeenconquer
Summary: “See, Baby was the one that everyone wanted to fuck.”Or the one where drunk Boys play pop quiz to find out which member of the Spice Girls they are.
Relationships: Billy Butcher/Hughie Campbell
Comments: 25
Kudos: 193





	If you wannabe my lover, you gotta get with my friends...

**Author's Note:**

> Literally no one asked for this but it had to be done. 
> 
> Warnings for some light racism and also questionable sexual activity while intoxicated. 
> 
> The Boys are deviants, you know what you signed up for.

“So... which one am I?” Frenchie addresses the basement ceiling, his words slightly slurred.

MM pauses from tearing the label off the beer bottle in his hand, frowning as he looks up with mild surprise, as though he’s forgotten how long he’s been sitting there.

“I know your English is bad, Froggie, but you’ve got to be more specific than that.” MM shoots over.

Butcher chuckles darkly but doesn’t bother to lift his head from where it’s lolling back against the couch.

From where Hughie is hidden behind his laptop, it’s the closest he’s ever seen the Englishman come to looking relaxed. He should be; between, the amount of alcohol they’ve consumed between them on their “day off” has gone from taking the edge off to stupor inducing.

Frenchie’s inflection tells them without the translation that his response was less than flattering before trying to bridge the language gap again.

“Le groupe? How do you say...the band?”

“The fuck is he on about now?” Butcher grumbles. The worn springs in the couch beneath him creak as he spreads his legs wider, getting comfortable.

“The Spice Girls.” Hughie supplies helpfully, before ducking his head.

Ever since their merry troupe of misfits had reunited, the reference had been playing on his mind; though he’d have rather died than bring it up himself.

The steady rise and fall of Butcher’s chest gives no indication of his interest in the conversation, though Hughie can practically feel him cocking an eyebrow at the roof.

“Have a crack, then.”

“Que?”

“He means guess.” MM, ever the moderator, adds.

“How do you expect me to understand these obscure British pop culture references?” Frenchie protests, and the pout in his voice is so pronounced that Hughie chokes, tries to stop himself spraying beer all over his keyboard.

“So much for being more American than any of us...fucking imports...” MM looks to Hughie for support, setting his bottle down.

Hughie shakes his head, suppressing a smile as the Brit and Frenchman are stirred into rousing; the resonating echoes of their shared indignation a rare, undocumented display of the two historical enemies joining forces.  
“All right, all right, settle down...you’ll wake Kimiko.” MM chastises.

Frenchie soothingly pets the raven mop of hair nestled in his lap, sighing when she only nuzzles further into his belly.

“Cheers mom. Since you’re such a fucking expert, why don’t you have a go?” Butcher challenges, sitting upright and clapping his hands on his denim clad thighs as if to announce his formal entry into the conversation.

Man, are they wasted.

“Fine.” MM nods sagely, before turning to astutely give Frenchie the once over.

Hughie stops pretending to type. Are they actually doing this?

Frenchie preens beneath the attention, batting his eyelashes and making kissing noises in MM’s direction.

“Sporty.” MM surmises as Butcher explodes into a fit of laughter.

Hughie starts in surprise; it’s quite the sight, seeing Butcher so animated, so unnaturally relaxed.

The exposed v of skin bared by his open necked, hideous Hawaiian shirt is pleasantly flushed; expansive shoulders shuddering with the movement. And is that the barest glimpse of a smile he spies?

It only adds to how absurdly, irritatingly attractive the man is.

Hughie can feel himself flushing at the thought, tells himself it’s just the booze, the lack of sleep, the close proximity and insane bond he has with these maniacs due to circumstance.

“Sporty is one of the hot ones, non?” Frenchie tries with a suggestive waggle of his eyebrows.

“Oh fuck no, mate, missed the boat on that one!” Butcher chortles as Frenchies’ mouth drops open in a displeased ‘o’, before beginning to spit deceptively pleasant-sounding expletives.

“What’s your reasoning there, MM?” Butcher asks, taking another drag of his beer as MM pretends to ponder the meaning of existence.

“I’ve just never seen a man wear more activewear in my life!” MM chortles, barely getting his beer bottle out of the way before Frenchie launches himself at him. Kimiko really has been around them too long; rolling aside adaptably with a hiss before curling in on herself again.

Hughie stands on shaky legs (wow, how drunk is he?), prepared to unwillingly intervene. Butcher’s hand waves him off dismissively. The playful scuffle before them almost makes Hughie miss the way Butcher’s eyes linger over him before turning back to the other two men.

“Asshole.” Frenchie spits, more for appearances than any real venom, smacking MM in the head as he doubles over in a fit of giggles.

“He ain’t wrong.” Butcher grins, all teeth.

“Pourqoi?”

“Well, she was the only one who could hold a tune...” Butcher muses.

“Cut like you wouldn’t believe either...for a woman...if you’re into that sort of thing, which you may be...” MM interjects with a snort.

“Basically she was the butch of the group...everyone thought she was a lesbian so she never got any of the spotlight!” Butcher finishes.

“All I heard was most talented, so I’d run with that.” Hughie smiles kindly, physically cowering away beneath the force of Butcher’s glare and MM’s eye roll.

“Merci, mon ami.” Frenchie nods, raising his tumbler of fuck knows what in solidarity, before pointing a finger at MM, “Do him next.”

“The same sex fascination...fits like a glove...”

“Shoot.” MM puts his hands behind his head, biceps flexing impressively.

“Whaddaya think, princess?” Butcher asks, dipping his head in Hughie’s direction without taking his eyes off the subject. The low, dark rumble of his voice does embarrassing things to Hughie’s stomach.

“Don’t...call me that.” Hughie grumbles, ducking his head before going back to typing, “I’d need to do some research first.

“Pussy.”

“Let me see, Hughie!” Frenchie exclaims, bounding drunkenly over to drop himself into Hughie’s lap, nearly knocking them both to the floor in the process.

“All right, give me a second, fuck!” Hughie curses, squirming uncomfortably before bringing The Spice Girls up in his browser history.

He hopes Frenchie has scared away the lazy boner he was beginning to pop, body confused by the false pretence of downtime. Not that Butcher’s general presence and the dulling lull of intoxication had anything to do with it.

“Not the most comfortable seat, est-ce?” Frenchie comments dryly, features completely bland as he wiggles his ass into Hughie’s crotch.

“Feel free to get off at any time.” Hughie hisses, wriggling uncomfortably. He can feel Butcher’s gaze trained on him in amusement, and can’t bring himself to meet his eyes.

“The ugly ones are always so desperate.” MM sighs with a shake of his head.

“You know he enjoys its now Hughie, watch your cootch!” Butcher snorts through his nose. He stands to retrieve them more cheap beer from their makeshift kitchen.

He strolls back to deposit one languidly next to Frenchie, shoving him off.

The brute then proceeds to press into Hughie’s back, squinting at the screen as he plants another beer in his hand.

Absurdly, it takes all of Hughie’s quickly unravelling willpower not to lean back into the oppressive heat rolling off the bigger man’s body.

“Ah, ha! This one!” Frenchie yells, practically punching the screen with his hand.

Hughie coughs, suppresses a giggle behind another sip of his beer.

“Good choice.” Butcher nods before stepping away.

“Well?” MM asks impatiently, voice raising unnecessarily.

“Posh.”

“Which one’s that again?”

Hughie flicks the laptop around, sharing the display.

Butcher whistles appreciatively.

“Knowing absolutely nothing about them, care to explain, Frenchie?”

“Because she is all black on the exterior, but white underneath?” Frenchie snickers.

“Racist motherfucker.”

Kimiko starts when the bottle cap MM lobs at Frenchie’s head goes wide, bouncing off the brickwork on the opposite side of the room. Frenchie swaggers back to drop down beside her, allowing her to settle back into his side.

“Settle down, ladies. Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” Butcher placates, as all parties take a much-needed drink break.

“I know this one...she’s Mrs. David Beckham,” Hughie fills the empty space with clicks as he scrolls, reading.

“So I’m the hot one, obviously.” MM grins, burping loudly in between.  
“No argument here...” Hughie breathes, diving back into the images. Maybe it’s been way too long since he got laid, but all that black definitely does it for him.

He’s quiet for too long and when he glances up, Butcher is staring at him again in amusement as he shrugs out of his trench coat. Smooths his palm over his black jeans, kicking one dark booted foot over the other.

Fuck, Hughie wants to lick them.

The thought pops in and out of his mind before he can control himself, mouth gaping helplessly.

He downs the rest of his beer in a few hurried gulps, spluttering when the backwash goes down the wrong way.

“Steady on, there.” Butcher doesn’t miss it; of course, he doesn’t.

“See, this is a compliment. She is incredibly stylish.” Frenchie offers a consilatory olive branch.

“Makes sense...it’s not like I’ve got much competition here with a bunch of white boys.” MM’s too small t-shirt threatens to tear as he leans forward, gesturing wildly with the neck of his bottle.

“Frenchie is one bum bag short of a complete set...Hughie only shops for band tees at fuck-boys-are-us ... and Butcher is still working this fucked up mix of Dad fab and emo shit 15 years after it went out of fashion.”

“At least my clothes aren’t three sizes too small!” Frenchie laughs, undeterred.

Butcher mimics being wounded, a too huge hand splayed over his chest.

“I had this shirt before it was cool.” Hughie sniffs, more than a little hurt as he plucks at his Morrissey t-shirt.

“All I’m saying is Kimiko has more game than all of you, and when we met her, she was wearing rags.”

“Fair.”

“Oui.”

“I ain’t gonna argue with her.”

They all nod in agreement, raising their glasses and drinking as Kimiko stares blankly at the mention of her name.

“There are some other reasons why this is an hang on pick for you, MM.” Butcher continues.

“Go on.” Frenchie says, bouncing a knee energetically.

“I’m the hot one, what else is there to say?” MM gloats, spreading him arms expansively, knocking over a nearby lamp. He gets very expressive when he was drunk, Hughie noticed vaguely, unable to help but smile.

“What do we know about good looking birds in the sack, lads?” Butcher hums.

“They rarely have to try.” Frenchie pipes up excitedly.

Hughie laughs as MM clenches his fists.

“They don’t contribute much, do they?” Butcher continues, rubbing his hands to together to warm them up, “Take it pretty well and make all the right noises, but don’t add much to the experience.”

“Aside from wanting to fuck me, what does this have to do with the Spice Girls?” MM ribs, looking for something new to throw.

“She added to the aesthetic, but didn’t bring much to the group dynamic.” Hughie explains, continuing to read.

“Excuse me?”

“She was more interested in becoming a WAG than she was in any sort of real career.” Butcher explains, nonsensically.

“Que?”

“A footballer’s wife. It says here that she launched a fairly successful fashion label.” Hughie disagrees.

“All I’m saying is, they didn’t invite her to the reunion for a reason.” Butcher shakes his head sadly.

“Did you not drag me back here?” MM demands.

“Last.”

“After Frenchie.”

Hughie drops his head into his forearms, shaking with laughter and refusing to answer when they all turn to him for confirmation.

“You bitches are just jealous that I have a functional life outside of you pathetic excuses for functional human beings.” MM raises his voice slightly too loudly as the rest dissolve into differing stages of silliness, “If being ridiculously rich with a hot husband...I mean wife...and a family means having nothing to do with all of you; I’ll take it!”

Hughie knows he’s completely off his face when his giggle is way too high pitched. His tongue is too loose in his mouth and he’s having way too much fun with this ridiculousness.

“What about Butcher?”

“Scary!” Frenchie shouts.

“Go on.” MM encourages, as Butcher cracks his neck expectantly.

“She is the most obnoxious, always has to be in the front.” Frenchie giggles.

“Cunt.”

“Nope. I reckon she’s the Scary one.” Hughie interjects, thumbing at the dozing Kimiko.

“What are you trying to say?” Frenchie says, warning in his tone.

“Who else could pull off all that leopard print with no one daring to bat an eyelid?”

“Who do you suggest then, pop culture expert?” MM asks.

“Ginger.”

Butcher’s nostrils flare as he jams his hands into his pockets, playing at patience; and Hughie tries and fail not to notice how unfairly good it makes him look.

“She is the one in the flag dress, no?” Frenchie asks.

“Because she’s the most British one? You gotta do better than that.” MM argues.

“Can’t wait for this brilliant fucking insight.”

“Well, she was the unofficial leader...” Hughie begins on shaky factual ground, hurriedly screening the web pages on the screen.

“Come off it...give me the respect I deserve...” Butcher rolls his eyes.

“She was the first one to leave the group to pursue a solo career...” Hughie continues, tsking as he continues to scroll.

The boys start howling appreciatively.

“That sounds about right.”

“Penser d’abord à soi!”

“Fucking funny, the lot of ya.” Butcher snorts dismissively, unable to keep the irritation out of his voice. He downs the rest of his drink before opening another with an authoritative crack.

“The charts don’t lie. Let’s see...singles charts...” Hughie catches Butcher’s rapidly darkening gaze, biting his lip cheekily.

“She was...moderately successful....” Hughie bites his lip, attempting to maintain a neutral demeanour. He knows its dangerous territory but he just can’t help himself.

“You must tell us who was number one!” Frenchie cries, bounding over to the screen like an over energetic terrier as MM attempts to beat him there, grabbing his jacket which he slips out of easily.

The two are too nearly too busy rough housing to hear the answer.

“Not a brain cell between them.” Butcher grunts despairingly, “Only one of em’ could sing, you twats!”

Once the slow dawning realisation hits, Frenchie begins doing laps of the basement like he’s won the World Cup, hollering and whooping.

“Moron.” MM snickers, attempting to ankle tap him on his way past. It doesn’t stop him raising his glass in a toast, before dumping it all over Frenchie’s head in celebratory fashion.

Hughie continues to devour the information hungrily, scanning for any shred of ammunition he can use.

Oh, fuck yes.

He attempts to clear his throat, but ends up hiccupping embarrassingly when he tries to get the rapidly fading attention of the room back.

“Here, gentleman is the in despicable...undisputed truth....”

“I hope this is as illuminating as all of your contributions.” Butcher coughs into the back of his hand. 

“Ginger also dabbled in some extremely questionable career choices....”

“It gets better?” MM asks, not even feigning interest as he stumbles into the kitchen before returning with a fistful of beers.

He slings one to Butcher that very nearly slips out of his hands. Frenchie, now shirtless, accepts his while wringing out his jacket.

“She’s an exhibitionist...” Hughie raises his eyebrows indelicately, doing his best attempt at sexy as he waggles them in Butcher’s direction. Judging from the look of disgust on the older man’s face, he fails, but he’s having too much fun to give a shit.

“Don’t leave us in suspense now, sweetheart.” Butcher urges in a bored tone. He dips his head back to take a long pull of his drink. The exposed column of his throat almost has Hughie choking on his own long neck.

“Porn.” Hughie finishes.

The stampede of feet towards the screen is only interrupted by Kimiko’s soft snores. Hughie is pushed to the back, might as well not exist anymore.

“I’ve always wanted to see what it looks like beneath the Union Jack...” Frenchie murmurs.

“Rather tasteful, really.” Butcher observes.

“I haven’t seen a bush like that since...” MM whistles.

“You last fucked your wife?” Frenchie replies easily.

“I’ll kill you!”

“Take my life, but don’t tell her I said that, she scares me!” Frenchie cries as he’s tackled to the floor.

“Now look what you’ve done, started a fucking riot.” Butcher steps over their rolling bodies, tripping in his best attempts to avoid the tussling pair.

His flank connects heavily with Hughie’s head as he stumbles, grabbing onto the back of the chair he’s seated on for balance. Too tipsy to contemplate moving on pure reflex, Hughie sighs as the meat of Butcher’s thigh cushions the blow, wrapping his arms around his leg to stabilise them both.

Fuck, he’s leaning into it, looking up under his eyelashes.

“You alright?” Butcher asks roughly, breathing hard.

“I’m not sure...I’ve always wanted to know... do the curtains really match the drapes?” Hughie grins, flicking his eyes playfully to Butcher’s dark shock of hair.

It’s not even flirtatious, desperate sounding at best, but for some reason, instead of punching him in the face or calling him a cunt, Butcher smirks lopsidedly back at him.

“Wouldn’t you like to know, pet.” He pats Hughie’s cheeky fondly before dislodging himself.

If Hughie can’t suppress a whine at the loss of contact, no one hears it over Butcher’s yelling as he attempts to force the other two men apart for the umpteenth time.

“Knock it on the head!”

“That is what I was trying to do!” Frenchie shouts back. MM slips over during his half-assed pursuit, diffusing any air of tension.

“If you two fuckwits are quite done, our little game isn’t finished yet.” Butcher leers.

The other two are slower to pick up on the implication, whether due to the injuries sustained or the amount of drink, but Hughie feels his face heat up.

“Come on guys...” Hughie openly whines.

“Who’s left?” MM frowns in concentration.

“Baby!” Frenchie bounces up and down excitedly, clapping his hands today.

“Bingo.”

“Because he is the youngest?”

“A great number of reasons, gentleman...” Butcher begins, cracking his knuckles as if getting ready to settle in for a proper dust up.

“He’d look good in pigtails?”

“Not exactly.”

“And a little baby doll negligee?”

“Warmer.”

“This is unfair, guys.” Hughie groans, “I didn’t even want to play.”

He settles for draining his drink, enjoying the pleasant head spin as the boys tear strips off him.

It’s not so much the degradation that bothers him - but more so what it does to his body.

Somewhere along the line, his pathetically low self-esteem began to equate humiliation with pleasure.

This is not a side of Hughie that he needs exposed in front of his co-workers...roommates...whatever they are.

If the others sense his growing discomfort, they don’t acknowledge it, busy riling each other up.

“Because pink is his colour?”

“Because he has a voice like a rose petal?”

“Close, but no cigar.”  
Hughie shifts uncomfortably in his chair, torturously pinned beneath the weight of the torrent of insults.

He’s starting to feel lightheaded. His cock mortifyingly perks up, beginning to ache more acutely as it continues to be ignored. He spreads his legs wider to accommodate, exhaling shakily. Sweat beads on his forehead.

“Come on Butcher, put the kid out of his misery.”

Butcher eyes Hughie considerately, as if trying to measure with his stare how much more he can take before he snaps.

And it had to be Butcher, didn’t it?

The one who completely disregards all of his limitations and shortcomings and just blows right past them, utterly confident in his ability to withstand the pressure when all he wants to do is cave in on himself, submit to the crushing weight of expectation.

“Hmmm.”

Hughie can feel himself beginning to shake, desperately trying to stay still.

Butcher’s frown of understanding is a ghost of a thing, eclipsed by the atmosphere, haunting his dark features for one moment and gone the next.

Hughie wants to choke on his own silent, internal screams.

Maybe it’s the blush creeping up to his ears that does it. More likely it’s the fact that he’s started draining every half empty bottle within arm’s reach on autopilot to deal with the conflicting rush of panic and arousal.

Either way, Butcher decides to finish him, whether he realises it or not.

“She’s more useless than tits on a bull, but we keep her around because all the girls want to be our little princess.”

That fucking word.

The heat pooling in his stomach erupts, shooting up the length of his spine, making his toes curl.

MM is literally applauding as Frenchie whoops.

The cacophony is enough to hide Hughie in plain sight, eyes slammed shut, biting down on how insanely turned on he is.

He needs to move, now.

“Gotta piss.” He mumbles, nearly tripping himself up in his haste to get out of the chair.

*

Hughie manages to kick of his shoes and get his pants undone before his back hits the mattress; shameful, but impressive nonetheless.

The first touch, fingers rubbing insistently over the dripping head to slick up the way, is sweet relief.

Like everything else in their fucked-up arrangement, privacy is non-existent. With no walls or doors, just a hastily resurrected tarp, the overflow of noise from the communal area blankets his hasty movements, the quiet, desperately muffled noises clawing their way out of his throat.

Anyone could walk in on him at any moment. The rush of realisation causes his hand to stutter for a second, twisting his length almost painfully.

“Oh fuck.” He groans to himself, staring glassily at the exposed concert in the ceiling.

He’s definitely doing this.

He throws his head back and disregards his brain’s feeble protests, enjoying the squeak of the springs beneath him as he plants his feet.

He gasps when he grips himself properly, only giving it a second before the motion is reduced to a blur of speed and friction. The pounding of his fist against his sweat slicked abdomen is sickeningly gratifying; hips thrusting urgently in mismatched timing with each downward stroke.

He’s so caught up in the sensation, in the desperate thrill of getting his end away before he can be interrupted, that it’s too late to abort mission when he registers the end of the bed dipping with an additional weight.

The sight of Butcher on his knees at his feet, dishevelled and smirking, almost has him coming on the spot. Thank god for good, old fashioned fear for your life as a deterrent - not as effective as it used to be, apparently.

“Shit...fuck, I...” Hughie stammers, attempting to shuffle upright. His pathetic attempts to cover himself fail dismally; hand frozen on his still rock hard dick, half shucked pants entrapping coltish, splayed legs struggling to close.

His fight or flight response isn’t what it used to be.

“Don’t let me interrupt,” Butcher says, after a small eternity, “Knew you were sensitive, princess, but this is something else.”

“Please...” Hughie starts, then stops, mortified by his own high pitched tone. Doesn’t know whether he’s begging for mercy, or a quick finish. If this is how it ends for him, he at least hopes after all they’ve been through that it’s quick.

When Butcher touches him, it’s not to wrap his hand around his throat, choking the life out of him. His thick, calloused fingers grip his knees with bruising force, dragging his legs apart; exposing him further.

“Wanna know why I said Baby?” Butcher’s tone is casual, easy. He wraps his impressive forearms around the underside of Hughie’s thighs. In one impressive motion, he drags him back down the bed, closer, thighs straining with the exertion.

“It ain’t because you’re innocent...or so pretty it’s bloody criminal...”

Butcher wets his lips, openly appraising as he sweeps his heavily lidded gaze over the body pinned in shock beneath him.

Hughie is shaking in fear and anticipation; trembling as Butcher lays down on his front, dragging his pants down to cup the curve of his ass. He can feel the sweat slicking up his crack, balls coiled tightly against his core.

His head is framed between Hughie’s legs, the pronounced muscles of his forearms popping, dark eyes gazing up at him hungrily, before his lizard brain catches up to what’s happening.

“See, Baby was the one that everyone wanted to fuck.”

Hughie’s mouth falls open just as Butcher swallows him whole. Drags him in and down to the depths of depravity, like he has been ever since the day he wandered into his work.

“Oh...my god...oh, fuck...” Hughie babbles mindlessly, slapping a hand over his own mouth when he realises how loudly he’s being.

He thought he knew what Butcher’s mouth was capable, spitting and barking and spewing a litany of filth, but never could’ve dared to imagine he would discover it so intimately.

The slurping sounds filling the void are beyond obscene. The feeling of the bristling beard scraping wetly against his exposed hole is nearly enough to drive Hughie insane. It’s beginning to burn, the friction beginning to heat his skin and it’s the sweetest pain he’s ever been in.

Butcher goes down on Hughie with the same intensity that he applies to everything he does. It would almost be militant in its unrelenting pressure, but there’s something else there, an underlying consideration, concerned rather than calculated in its application.

Unsure what to do with his hands, Hughie places one gently on the top of his head, grounding himself in the texture of his absurdly thick hair.

Butcher hums encouragingly, and the reverberation around him nearly does him in.

“Fuck, fuck, I’m close...”  
Butcher pulls off with a slick pop, laughing with unguarded brightness when Hughie muffles a scream of frustration into his forearm.

“Demanding, isn’t she?” Butcher chuckles, as if to himself.

Hughie opens his mouth to protest, but finds it immediately filled with the older man’s fingers. Gags when they venture to the back of his throat, pressing down on his tongue.

Butcher sighs as though it’s the sweetest noise he’s ever heard.

“Don’t need your commentary. Got better uses for that smart mouth, don’t we?”

The invading appendages push down harder, causing his mouth to involuntarily flood with saliva.

“Show me how well you can suck...how nice and wet you can get em’.”

His cock, flushed and angry like the emotion warring in his chest, jumps traitorously against his belly.

Without thinking, Hughie bites down. Not enough to severe a limb, but hard enough to signal his disapproval of their current proceedings.

“Naughty little bitch!” Butcher growls, quickly withdrawing his hand, wringing his fingers tenderly.

Hughie whimpers, untended cock drooling at the degradation.

“Like that do ya?” Butcher promises, grinning savagely.

He slaps Hughie hard across the face, snapping his head to the side with the force of it.

“Fuck me...” Hughie moans, dazed and relishing the head spinning.

“Not a fucking chance.” Butcher snarls, grabbing a fistful of Hughie’s hair and pulling.

“Please!” Hughie cries, shrilly. His scalp burns like the hair has been torn from his head and it’s doing nothing to quell the heat threatening to boil over in his belly.

“Don’t get fucking cute with me. For pulling that shit, you’ll be lucky if I even let you come.” Butcher snaps.

When Hughie whimpers in response, he’s dropped him back onto the bed with a dismissive snort.

“Open your legs like a good little slut.” Butcher instructs, rolling the wrist that Hughie had mistakenly threatened to maim.

The responsive blush blooms from his heaving chest all the way down to his treasure trail.

“Don’t tell me you’re bashful now. A minute ago, you were fucking gagging for it.” Butcher huffs impatiently.

Lifting his eyes for the first time properly, Hughie’s mouth waters when he sees the pronounced outline of Butcher’s cock pressing against his black pants. It’s better than he imagined it; a weapon of a thing.

“Spread em’ or I’ll break your knee caps!”

The aggressive tone sends Hughie scrabbling to obedience, legs parting readily.

“Lovely. Let’s see if you’re as sweet and innocent as they say, ay?”

Hughie chokes at the sudden intrusive presence prodding experimentally at his hole. Embarrassingly, his body seems more than ready to accommodate it when it is thrust roughly inside.

“Fucking hell.” Butcher’s warm breath noses across his entrance as Hughie squirms uncomfortably under the attention.

The finger begins to thoroughly explore the deep, dark cavern of his insides. Despite being barely lubricated, the squelching that fills the silence is beyond mortifying.

“Jesus, you’re sloppy, princess.” Butcher groans, ragged voice almost reverent.

Hughie doesn’t trust himself to speak, eliciting a small gasp when a second finger quickly follows the first.

“Greedy, isn’t it? Reckon it’d swallow my entire fist, first go.”

Butcher jams in a third, beginning to scissor them violently as soon as it’s nestled with the rest.

“Did you pull your sopping lacy panties to the side; prep yourself before I came in? Hope I’d catch you in the act and stuff your puffy, empty cunt?”

“Oh fuck...no...I mean, yes!” Hughie babbles. The sensation of being stretched out is overwhelming. His sensitive inner walls contract desperately around the intrusive digits.

“Want me to pop that little cherry like bubble-gum, baby?” Butcher asks, punctuating each word with a cruel twist of his fingers. Ever merciless jab deliberately misses the mark, centimetres off the self-destruct button.

“Need it.” Hughie practically sobs. His abdomen is spasming, thighs threatening to collapse in on themselves, held up by the grace of denim clad pillars of fortitude. It’s starting to hurt but he’s so close that he’s moved beyond the pain, desperately seeking release.

“I’ll tell you what you need, you filthy little slut.” Butcher hisses.

He spits on Hughie’s cock, the thick globule dribbling listlessly down his untouched length, bobbing helplessly.

“You’re going to come like this.” Butcher tells him, unrelenting in his abuse.

“Please don’t...” Hughie begs. His hand is already subconsciously moving towards his cock before he can think to abort the movement.

Butcher intercepts it, grabbing it and yanking his wrist so roughly above his head that he swears that he feels the bones crunch.

“Time to learn some discipline, my lazy little pillow princess.” Butcher tuts, continuing to fuck him dryly with his fingers the entire time, “Don’t always get to lie on our backs and take it. Sometimes you’ve got to earn it.”

This is he’s going to die, expiring right here on this soiled mattress of sheer want, and it’s more cold blooded than anything the boys have executed, ever.

“Can’t...” Hughie whines, unashamed of the way his voice breaks.

He slams his eyes shut, unable to contain the pressure building behind them any longer.

“Holy fuck, are those tears? You’ll smudge your mascara if you’re not careful.”

The deliberately uncoordinated swipes begin to randomly brush against his prostate, but not enough to offer any real relief.

“I’ll do anything!” Hughie sobs; open, ugly tears that crack his barely held together facade wide open.

“You would, wouldn’t you?” Butcher hums, something like appreciation softening his tone.

The strokes become more consistent, stoking the sparks of pleasure into a kindling flame.

“Anything, just fuck...”

“Let it out, sweetheart.”

The crying is beyond humiliating. His chest heaves with the barely caught breathes, ribs contracting painful with each new wave that catches in his throat and comes cascading down his checks.

It must go on for some time, because by the time he comes back to himself, he feels well and truly spent. Drained; not as thoroughly as a pleasant release, but cathartic in its own fucked up way.

“There, s’alright.”

“Just let me die already.” Hughie manages, genuine surrender passing through his cracked lips.

The wordless response is a hand wrapped around his throat, crushing his windpipe and restricting his airway.

Black dots cluster in his clouded vision before his world suddenly, violently, whites out.

*

When he wakes suddenly, terrified, it’s to Butcher licking his flaccid dick.

It’s so over stimulating that it takes Hughie a second to realise he’s cleaning up his come.

“I think I’m going to pass out.” Hughie groans weakly, attempting to lift himself up onto his elbows and collapsing from the sheer overload of over stimulation.

“Again?” Butcher grunts, lifting his head to acknowledge his presence.

“Fuck off.” Hughie grunts, attempting to shove him off.

“Birds, pissy even when they get their rocks off.” Butcher shakes his head, before lowering it to finish the job.

He blessedly moves upward to begin lapping at Hughie’s navel. It’s both disgusting and oddly endearing at the same time.

“You don’t have to do that...” Hughie mutters, dropping his head back down into the tatty pillow.

“Was always taught to clean up after myself.” Butcher pauses, before continuing to lave him with his tongue.

Hughie’s spent cock twitches traitorously, and he wrinkles his nose at his own depravity.

“Do you need me to...give you a hand?” He asks, getting go on his elbows. He knows it’s a poor choice of words, but he’s earnest in his intention.

“Already sorted.”

There is a wicked gleam in Butcher’s dark eyes that gives Hughie pause, blinking hard in contemplation.

Picking at the leftover scabs on his torso, he frowns.

“Did you...come on me when I was passed out?”

Butcher has the decency to look sheepish when being caught red handed.

“You sick fuck!” Hughie shouts, completely forgetting the lack of walls surrounding them.

“If you had been there, well you know, consciously, you would’ve agreed that it was quite a sight!” Butcher laughs, hands raised culpably, “Those baby blues rolling back, the noises you were making...”

“I don’t mean this in a sexy way, but please actually stop.”

“My hands leaving these perfect imprints on your lovely pale neck...”

“Murder vibes, super-hot.”

“Didn’t seem to mind when you were asking me to choking you out, princess. Told you I’d finish you off one day.”

“Consent...I didn’t...get out now; please!”

Butcher leaves, whistling a familiar pop tune under his breath as Hughie buried his head beneath his ragged pillow and passes out again for the final time that night.


End file.
